There's always a small crowd of observers sitting by the courts, all of them old, and Glenn knows that he'll be one of them one day, even one day soon; his knees take a day to recover from an hour's play. But because he is not old yet–because he's still on this side of the chain link fence–he channels that fear into a renewed vigor, hustling to the net to slap down shots to prove himself against the older version of himself who sits by with his coffee and nostalgia.

 

There's a certain camaraderie that breeds naturally between the players, the six or sometimes eight who show up on Tuesdays and Saturdays and examine the printed-out sheet that prescribes who is playing whom that day—an ever-evolving round robin bracket designed by Mack, who used to be an engineer. Glenn doesn't understand how the bracket works; he has played Tony G three times in the past month, and hasn't played Paul once. But he doesn't say anything, not wishing to upset the fragile order of things. It's small complaints that pave the way for larger ones, like the cracks that spiderweb across almost all the courts now. Only #4 is undamaged, but the maple tree that overhangs it drops little helicoptering seeds onto the court that flutter down and crunch underfoot.

 

He's grateful for having something that provides a structure to his week, something around which other things must be scheduled. He still marvels at how good it feels to win, especially a close match, and his wife Barbara can tell from his demeanor if he's lost, telling him that it's just the 60 and up league! But she doesn't understand—that's why it matters so much to him. It's certainly more central to his life than the 25-35 league, all those young guys with careers and kids, who can afford to cancel every couple of weeks because life got in the way.

 

And then one morning Glenn arrives and finds the others crowded around a yellow notice posted next to Mack's bracket: the county is closing the courts at the end of the summer. No reason is given, but Glenn calls someone in the county offices and learns it'll be discussed at the next board meeting. Glenn asks if anyone wants to go sit in on the meeting to learn more; Tony G halfheartedly agrees.

 

The night of the meeting it occurs to Glenn that he's never seen Tony G outside of the league, and it's strange to see him dressed in slacks and a short-sleeve button-down. He looks older, and Glenn is suddenly uncomfortable. He takes his plastic chair in the audience, Tony G putting a seat between them. They learn that the county can't afford maintenance on the tennis courts. There's just not many people using them anymore, the maintenance supervisor explains. And from a safety standpoint, he says, once they stop maintaining them, it makes sense to tear them down completely.

 

Glenn dismisses a latent fantasy in which he and Tony G and the other four people in attendance stand to make impassioned speeches in favor of saving the courts. It wouldn't do anything. There's no malice in this room, no passion at all, just plain municipal governance and bookkeeping.

 

Outside, Tony G puts his hands in his pockets, though it isn't cold. He says, Maybe they could use the courts at the high school instead.

 

Glenn says, Yeah, maybe. But internally he's doubtful their group, so fragilely composed, could survive the move to the other side of town.

 

As August arrives, everyone stops talking about it. Play continues as usual; Mack still proposes byzantine match-ups that he insists are building to some conclusive ranking system, Paul still throws his expensive racket when he loses a close match. Glenn still plays with an eye on the old guys sitting on the bleachers. Occasionally when a match gets interesting they might get up and lean on the fence, infusing the play with urgency.

 

Towards the end of August Mack, after much calculating with a golf pencil, determines that Glenn and Tony M are to play for the title of League Champion for the year. That this is the final year goes unspoken but not unnoticed. The match is scheduled for that Saturday.

 

On Friday night, when he and Barbara eat out, Glenn orders a chicken breast over salad and declines dessert. Barbara can see from his deliberate fork-stabs he's fixated on something. Of course he's fixated on the following morning's match, but even more so on the impending dissolution of the group, so loosely tied by this one shared interest. He can't picture going to Mack's house to watch a football game. He can't imagine any scenario in which all of them might be in the same room again.

 

The morning of the match Glenn has a nervous bowel movement and feels thirstier than normal. At the courts, he slips a sweatband around his bald head and does some basic stretches. Though only one duo is competing for the title, everyone has come dressed to play as though their services might be required, like seconds in a duel.

 

Tony M serves first, a practiced shot that's consistently accurate but almost never powerful. Glenn easily returns it over the net, and Tony M whiffs his shot. As Glenn crouches to prepare for Tony M's next serve, he feels something in his knee. A subtle pain, like a lightly plucked guitar string where his thigh meets the knee joint. He shakes it off, returns the serve, wins the point. When he crosses the court and crouches again, he doesn't feel anything, but the memory of the earlier pain haunts him. He looks beyond Tony M to the old guys on the bleachers, elbows on knees, not a drop of sweat anywhere on them. Tony M serves before Glenn looks back, and the ball glides by him.

 

He tells himself to focus. The next one comes faster, Tony M perhaps emboldened by his previous ace, but Glenn returns it handily and rushes to the net to swat down Tony M's next shot. For the next three games he has found a rhythm and his knee doesn't bother him once.

 

But Tony M has found his rhythm, too, and after much sweating and hustling, they split the first two sets.

 

Now it is late in the third and final set, Glenn ahead 5-4. This is the deciding game, and if Glenn's knee holds out he can win it. He serves forcefully, making Tony M take a step back to return the ball. He does, and the ball just barely squeaks over the net, Glenn lunging to scoop down and flick it back over, then running for his life back to the baseline to anticipate Tony M's follow-up. It comes as a high lob, and Glenn can't tell if it'll land inbounds or not, so he reaches for it, a nearly impossible angle, but makes clean contact, and now he's back on the baseline in the ready position, prepared for anything. This is the longest volley they've had in a few games, and it continues apace: Tony M hitting crosscourt, Glenn returning with a sharp backhand, Tony M trying to put some spin on it, Glenn countering with one that sends Tony M running to catch it...

 

For two men their age it is a marathon volley, and Glenn can feel the surprise from the crowd. He can feel a persistent twang of the guitar string in his knee, too, but he ignores it, racing for the next return shot, swinging cleanly across his body. Tony M sends it back, and Glenn responds. This has gone on for longer than seems possible, and Glenn can feel sweat in his eyes despite the headband, can feel the court through the thinning soles of his shoes, can feel his knee telling him that this can't go on much longer... But as long as it does, there's no thought about the future, no thought about the cracks in the court or the holes in the budget, nothing but the feel of the ball on the racket—and the old men are up off the bleachers, and Glenn is swinging as gracefully as his body will allow, and Tony M lunges—but misses!—and Glenn lets himself go, lets himself fall, hears the guys yelling and cheering his name. Lying on his back, heart pounding, he looks through sweat-blurred eyes at the clouds overhead, and below him he can feel the hard nubs of the helicopter seeds, the seeds that this time next year will fall unimpeded into dirt and grow something new.